“She thinks you don’t like her because she wears the hijab,” Zuha said.
“Ma wears the hijab.”
“True. And you don’t like your mother much either.”
That was difficult to argue with. “I don’t like Shabana,” I said, “because she thinks everyone should be wearing a hijab. I bet that if she could wrap one around my head she would.”
Zuha giggled. “She’s not that bad.”
“Every time you talk to me in public, she looks like she’s having a stroke.”
“She probably is.”
“Anyway, that’s why I don’t like her.”
“Fine.” Zuha shrugged. “I’ll let her know.”
“You do that,” I said. Then, after a moment, “Except don’t do that. You’re not going to do that, are you?”
I was happy enough to be ignored by the MSA, and they’d probably all but forgotten I existed by the time our second year started, and Shabana became president. Though I didn’t have anything to do with her in her official capacity, she continued to annoy me as an individual. She’d convinced Zuha that it was worthwhile to at least try to pray five times a day, which meant that whenever we managed to get a night together, an alarm went off at five or six in the morning for the predawn prayer. I was tempted to get up and pray myself a couple of times, if only to ask Allah to rain down misery, pestilence and maybe boils, if He was so inclined, onto Zuha’s religious friend for these ridiculously early mornings.
I never did, of course. Somehow it didn’t seem like the kind of request God would seriously entertain.
I’m not sure what would have happened if the universe hadn’t intervened. Maybe life would have unfolded exactly as it did. Zuha changed. I didn’t. It is an old story when it comes to young love. People drift apart. So even without the whole pregnancy thing, it is possible that we were heading in different directions.
It started when Professor Herman asked Zuha and me to stay behind after class. He told us that he wanted to teach Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses the following semester. We were the only two Muslim students registered for his course, and he wanted to know if we would object.
“It is, of course, not my intention to assign any reading that is offensive to your religion. However, I believe that certain noncontroversial sections of the book will be very useful in illuminating the themes of the course. Those are all you will be required to read. Do either of you have any objections to my proceeding in this manner?”
We didn’t, and that should have been an end to the matter. Except it wasn’t, because Shabana Wassay and the MSA were about to get involved.
* * *
—
“This is ridiculous. Unacceptable. We have to call him out.”
I looked up from my lunch—a sandwich made up of perfectly sliced pastrami—to find Shabana Wassay standing over me, her voice raised loud enough to be heard by everyone in the cafeteria. Her eyes were wide, her skin flushed and her nostrils flaring. Zuha followed in her wake, clutching a copy of A Fine Balance to her chest and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else right now.
“You’re frothing, Madam President.” I slid my plate toward them. “Fries?”
The leader of the MSA fairly snarled at me and turned to Zuha. “Is he ever serious?”
Zuha shook her head, and I wondered, not for the first time, how much about our relationship she had shared with her friend. Barely anyone knew we were a couple. It was classified information, and we always discussed whom we might disclose it to before we did so.
“What outrage has you so outrageously outraged today, Shabana?”
“Did you know that one of the English professors at this school is teaching The Satanic Verses?”
I glanced at Zuha, who didn’t meet my gaze. Instead, she chose the moment to grab three fries and shove them into her mouth, clearly not wanting to speak.
“I did,” I said, deciding to leave her out of it. For now.
Shabana gasped and gaped at me. “You did? And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t realize you were in the class.”
“I’m not.”
“Then there is no reason you should know.”
“But it’s offensive.”
I told her that the professor had spoken to me about it, and he wasn’t going to assign anything that insulted the Prophet. “Besides, you don’t have to read any of it. Zuha and I are the only Muslims in that class.”
“I’m…not,” Zuha said. “In the class.”
“What?”
“I dropped it.”
I sat back in my chair. “Really?”
“It isn’t a big deal,” my secret girlfriend said airily. “I was going to tell you. Can I have some of your sandwich?”
I slowly pulled my plate closer to myself.
“Jerk,” Zuha muttered under her breath.
“What matters,” Shabana said, “is that it is offensive for me to even see that book around. It is horrible.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s try it this way. What, specifically, offends you about the book?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”
“You see where I’m going with this, right?”
The president of the MSA drew herself up to her not very considerable full height. “I don’t have to read it. I’ve been told by people whom I trust that it is offensive.”
“Who do you know that’s read the book?”
“My sister’s husband’s cousin read it.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “And what did this hopelessly removed cousin of yours find objectionable?”
“The parts about the Prophet, of course. Look, you’re missing the point. This needs to stop. The Muslim students here are being oppressed—”
I snorted at that, which earned me a glare from Zuha.
“We’re being disrespected,” Shabana insisted. “It is offensive to us to have to see that filthy book on the bookstore shelves and our voices deserve to be heard. So, since you are part of the school newspaper, and you’re the best writer we know, we need you to write an article denouncing the professor. It is the absolute least you can do for your Muslim brothers and sisters.”
“You really thought coming to me with this was a good idea?”
“I told you,” Zuha said. “He’s not going to do it.”
“Because it absolutely was. You want me to write about this? Sure, I’ll write about it.”
“Really?” Zuha asked, all skepticism.
“Really?” Shabana asked, all hope and excitement.
“Of course. I’m a big fan of doing the absolute least I can do for my Muslim brothers and sisters. Didn’t you know?”
* * *
—
“Don’t do it.”
I watched as Zuha barged into my room, stalked to the closet and picked out my green and silver Slytherin tie.
“Hi,” I said.
She ignored me and marched back to the entrance, looping the tie on the doorknob. This was usually a sign meant to keep my roommate out during extracurricular activities, but somehow I didn’t think those were in the cards just then.
“Promise me you won’t do it.”
I tried out my very best look of angelic innocence. I doubt it was at all convincing. “What are you talking about?”
“Whatever stupid thing you’re going to do to the MSA. Don’t do it, Anvar. These people are my friends.”
“You should get better friends. In fact”—I swiveled around in my chair and held out my hands in a grand gesture, which was only slightly spoiled by the fact that I bumped my left wrist pretty painfully against my desk—“you already have one.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Neither am I. I can’t believe you’re on Shabana’s side on this one.”
&
nbsp; “We’re on the same side, Anvar. If you would stop thinking about yourself for like five minutes, maybe you’d see that.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Zuha held out a warning finger toward me. Then she exhaled and turned her back to me, before spinning around again. “Just promise me you won’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Apparently, I don’t know what you would or wouldn’t do. Why’d you drop the class?”
She gave a dismissive wave. “Who cares?”
“You do, obviously, or you wouldn’t have done it. Why are you so desperate to be liked by those people?”
“Anvar, they’re our people.” She shook her head, cutting off my response. “Just tell me. Are you going to do what I say or not?”
I wanted to just say no because she was being ridiculous. Besides, banning books or stifling discussion about them was the beginning of the end. I wasn’t going to kneel at the altar of the perpetually offended. I didn’t believe that was right and Zuha agreed with me. That’s why the way she was acting made no sense.
To prevent a full-blown fight more than anything else I said, “I’ll think about it.”
“Fine. You do that.”
“Babe?”
That single word seemed to draw some of the tension out of her. “What?”
I got to my feet and walked up to her. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
Zuha bit her lip and looked down at the floor. “You’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“That is a truth universally acknowledged, I think.”
The reference to Austen didn’t manage to draw even a small smile from her. “We aren’t smart. We’re stupid, Anvar. We did something really stupid.” When I didn’t say anything, she whispered, “I’m late.”
I almost asked her what she was late for, exactly.
Then it hit me.
“Oh.” I sat back down. “That’s…You’re sure?”
Zuha hugged her arms to her body. “Yes.”
I sank back farther into my chair. The breath wasn’t knocked out of me or anything, but it felt like it. It was as if the world was a race, and my mind was suddenly struggling to keep up. The implications of what she was telling me were…like…Ma was going to kill me. She was going to literally take a rolling pin and bash my head in. She’d sell tickets, make it a cautionary tale for naughty little brown children everywhere.
I looked at Zuha, at this woman I loved, and even though she was only a few feet away from me, she seemed hopelessly alone standing there. I wanted to get to my feet. I wanted to say something smart and funny and profound. I just couldn’t think of anything. Then I realized what she’d said, or more important, what she hadn’t said.
“Have you…you know…” I gestured vaguely toward the lower half of her body.
She knew me well enough to know what I was asking. Of course, she did. That is who we were. “No. Not yet.”
I was about to ask her why, when I noticed the tears she was holding back, and realized that she was scared too. I went to her and took her hands in mine. “Okay. It’s okay. We’ll find out together. You and me.”
“It’s just…you look down on Shabana and the MSA. You think you’re better than them. More evolved. I don’t think that’s true. You’re just different. The lives they lead…they’re honorable lives, Anvar. They’re good people. They live by a code, and they would never find themselves in the situation we are in. There are reasons for Allah’s commands, and we shouldn’t be—”
“Let me just go get a pregnancy test,” I said. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. As long as you’re with me.”
“Always,” I said, relieved to have finally found a promise I was able to truthfully give her.
* * *
—
There are times when strangers are better than acquaintances and even friends. When you are buying a pregnancy test for your distraught girlfriend along with a few different brands of condoms, having lost faith in your current one, it would be nice to have a cashier who has absolutely no idea who you are.
“Hey, Anvar. How’s it going?” Cindy Chui asked, sounding cheerful before she saw the merchandise I was carrying. “Um…congratulations, maybe?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Wow. Straight people problems, huh?”
“Possibly.”
“Heavy.” Cindy, who’d been in a couple of my classes last year, gave me a sympathetic smile. “By the way, not to state the obvious or anything, but I’ve heard that these”—she held up the boxes of condoms, and then pointed to the pregnancy test—“are best purchased before you have to buy that.”
“Thanks for the pro tip. Listen, Cindy, could you not mention this to anyone?”
“Cross my heart. Are you sure you only want to buy one of these tests?”
“Why?”
“They’re not a hundred percent accurate. And some of them can be wrong. I mean, that’s what I’ve seen on TV, so it must be true.”
I went back and got two of every single brand of pregnancy test that the store had available. I plunked all eight of them before Cindy.
“So who’d you get in trouble?”
“No one is in trouble yet.”
Cindy didn’t press me further and, after admonishing me to be a man, finally checked me out. I added her to a list of people I’d have to avoid forever.
Walking back to the dorm, I found it impossible not to worry. I’d heard once, probably in an Islamiyat class in Pakistan, that the human soul has two wings—hope and fear—and that we can only ascend if we find a balance between them.
Had Zuha and I hoped too much and thought too little of the consequences of what we were doing? On our first night together, I’d remembered my grandmother’s advice not to play it safe, but maybe I should have reached for her advice to be careful instead. Had Zuha and I done something irrevocable together? I’d been warned about doing things that could not be undone, on that Eid long ago, when there had been a knife in my hands and blood on my clothes.
None of that mattered now. I had to appear calm for Zuha, no matter what happened. I paused with my hand on the doorknob, closed my eyes, centered myself and then walked in. Zuha wiped quickly at her eyes. When she saw the contents of the bag I handed her, she shook her head. “You’re an idiot.”
I was not in a position to argue the point, so I just shrugged. Zuha grabbed her purse, hid two of the tests inside and went to the bathroom.
I waited.
She was gone an infinity but returned a few minutes later. We sat down together, holding hands, waiting for the results on the two sticks she held.
“Maybe we should pray,” she said.
“Seems a little late for that.”
“It’s never too late.”
I grimaced at the tired cliché, but I didn’t want to argue with her. Not then. I loved her more than enough to do what she asked, and so, for the first time in forever, I raised my hands, and asked God for help.
* * *
—
It was a glorious day. The sun high and bright in the sky, proof beyond all doubt that the world had not ended. Zuha was not pregnant. Ragnarok had been avoided. Life was incredible.
It was, at the very least, great. I was a little nervous waiting outside Professor Herman’s office. My article on the Satanic Verses fiasco had come out and it was brilliant. I had absolutely eviscerated the MSA, accusing them of trying to make themselves feel better by fighting small, pedantic, pointless battles, while they did absolutely nothing for the suffering of Muslims in Afghanistan and Iraq. They took no action at all to relieve the pain of Muslims in Kashmir, Somalia or Bosnia. They were small-minded and their decision to pick a fight over a book two decades old, the author of which was living in England and married to a supermodel despite the fatwas
against him, was merely emblematic of the pathetic, impotent state of their organization and the Muslim World in general.
Life was good. Zuha and I hadn’t spoken much after the scare. I’d called her a couple of times, and though she’d always answered, she’d also had reasons, good reasons to be sure, to get off the phone quickly. She’d also missed a few classes. I’d thought about dropping by her dorm room but Nico, whom I’d brought up to speed on everything, had advised against it.
Everything was fine. Perfectly fine.
When the professor ushered me in, he gestured for me to take a seat. “Sorry for not letting you in right away, Mr. Faris. I wanted to take a look at your article one more time before I spoke to you.”
“No worries,” I said. “What did you think?”
He cleared his throat, looked down at a yellow legal notepad in front of him that was covered in illegible chicken scratch and looked back up. “First of all, I have to say that I wish you had shown this to me before publishing it. If you had, I would’ve had the opportunity to tell you that I am no longer teaching The Satanic Verses.”
I stared at him. “What? Professor, you can’t give in to these philistines—”
“Mr. Faris, do you have any idea how many emails I have received about this issue in the last few days? No fewer than three hundred and thirty-one.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “I am not, though I certainly wish I were. Apparently, word of my decision to have my students read parts of Rushdie’s book spread to a local mosque and then beyond. A lot of people, it seems, have rather vociferous objections. I’ve decided, in deference to their feelings, not to teach the book until I can convince them that I mean no harm.”
“You realize that you will die before that happens.”
“Be that as it may,” Professor Herman said, his tone infuriatingly calm.
“They could’ve been picketing outside my door and I would’ve still taught it, if I were you.”
“I understand if you are disappointed in me.”
I prepared to speak a polite lie. “I’m not disappointed—”
The Bad Muslim Discount Page 11